"Another day, another false lead," grumbled Dean as he slammed his Impala's door shut and stuffed a hot dog into his mouth.

"You know, that's probably a good thing," said Sam as he climbed into the passenger seat, closed the door, and began unwrapping a questionable-looking tuna sandwich. The Impala sat in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven in downtown Wilmington, Delaware. It turns out that in Murder Town USA, a string of mysterious deaths is not unusual at all.

"Good for most people," said Dean, chomping on his hot dog. "But I'm bored out of my mind. We've been chasing false leads for weeks now."

As if on cue, Sam felt one of his two cell phones vibrate. He withdrew it from his pocket and flipped it open. This phone was special; it only had one number on its contacts list: Captain George Wilkerson of the Night Police. Sam read the text message aloud.

"Looking for some excitement? Go to the Rodin Museum in Philadelphia. Leave immediately. Tell the agents that you are with Wellington Insurance and were sent by George."

"You know," said Dean as he started the Impala and rumbled out of the parking lot, "I'm glad that we're getting some action, but I don't like how he knows that we're near Philadelphia."

Sam looked up at the electronic toll transponder mounted at the top of the windshield. "I think that's a small price to pay for hundreds of dollars of tolls," he said, knowing that they would encounter yet another toll as they shot up I-95.

Dean gingerly maneuvered the Impala between the two cars, almost hitting the one behind him. "I hate parallel parking," he grumbled. "How do these people do it?" After almost ten minutes, he finally inched the car over to the curb.

Sam opened the passenger door and stepped out. They were parked two blocks from the Rodin Museum. Sam could very clearly see the red and blue flashing of police lights. "Looks like we're in the right place."

Sam and Dean strolled over to the museum, trying their best to fit in with bustling Philadelphians on the sidewalk. As they approached, they saw a half-dozen cars belonging to the Philadelphia Police Department parked on the street in front of the museum, lights flashing. On the lawn in front of the museum, seven unmarked cars were parked between the trees and bushes.

"I feel naked like this," whispered Dean. "Are you sure we shouldn't have brought our handguns?"

"Last time we dealt with these people, I thought we were going to get shot," replied Sam in a low voice. "This time, we don't have Wilkerson to bail us out. I think it's best that we look as nonthreatening as possible."

The Rodin Museum was a small, white, marble building that looked like a miniature Greek temple. Sam and Dean could see a dozen Philadelphia police officers standing guard amidst the tall oak trees that sprang up intermittently from the grass lawn surrounding the museum. Doing their best to look like they belonged, the brothers walked right up to the entrance of the museum. They made it about halfway along the path before they were stopped.

"Sorry folks, but the museum is closed today," said a uniformed police officer. "Please move along."

"We're not tourists," said Dean, doing his best to stand up straight and look important. "I'm Mr. Redford, this is Mr. Schuster. We're with Wellington Insurance."

"I don't care who you are," began the officer, "You can't-"

"Wellington Insurance, you say?" interrupted a man in a black suit, walking up from behind the officer. He had a pale, white face that was instantly forgettable; he wouldn't have looked out of place in the cubicles of a Fortune 500 company. But contrary to his plain appearance, he walked with the confidence of a C-level executive and spoke with the assertiveness of a used car salesman. "Please, come with me."

"But sir, these people are-"

"They are just here to follow-up with the insurance claim," said the man, seeming to grow in stature and tower over the officer. "We'll deal with them." The man turned and walked towards the museum. Without a word, Sam and Dean followed.

They didn't have far to go. After rounding a bronze statue of The Thinker, they arrived at the Rodin Museum's main entrance. Or rather, they arrived at a missing door.

Between the pillars adorning the museum's entrance was an empty space in the wall, about twenty feet high and thirteen feet wide. Looking through the space, Sam and Dean saw a large room filled with metal sculptures. It was clear there should have been a door, but looked like it had just vanished.

Five men and one woman, all in suits, stood in front of the empty door frame. Four of the men were looking out at the lawn, obviously standing guard. The woman and one of the men were examining the empty door frame. Sam and Dean were brought right up to them in the middle of an argument.

"I realize the security camera footage is useless," said the woman, voice raised with a hint of exasperation creeping in. "But Sergeant, there must be footage from a nearby storefront camera or traffic camera of a suspicious vehicle-"

"With all due respect, Lieutenant," interrupted the man, clearly holding back a temper, "We don't have the manpower to go through hours of footage-"

Sam and Dean's escort cleared his throat and saluted. "Lieutenant Vasquez, Sergeant Reynolds, these two men claim to be with Wellington Insurance."

Vasquez and Reynolds paused their argument and turned towards the brothers.

Lieutenant Vasquez looked at them with the intensity of a falcon studying a plump, injured mouse far below. She easily stood at least six inches shorter than Dean, but made up for it with an aura of assertiveness and aggression that seemed to burn like the heat of a four-alarm fire. Though she only looked a couple of years older than Dean, her crisp black suit and frown of impatience made her look like a mother addressing a stupid child. "Who sent you?" she demanded.

"George," answered Dean. "He said that there was something exciting going on here."

Sergeant Reynolds sighed. His rumpled, worn pinstriped suit could barely contain his plump beer belly. His shoulders seemed to be perpetually slumped and it seemed as if he was just counting down the days until his retirement. He absently rubbed at his greying mustache. "George, you say? What's he up to these days?"

"We don't have time for storytelling!" snapped Lieutenant Vasquez. "I don't know or care why Wilkerson sent you specifically here, but since he's trying to recruit you, I'll put on the bare minimum song and dance and then send you on your way. This case is too big for the likes of you two," she said, not bothering to hide her contempt.

Dean looked like he was going to respond with an insult, but Sam shot him a look.

"Approximately two hours ago," began Vasquez, "Our local patrol unit was alerted to the theft of The Gates of Hell, a sculpture created by, obviously, Auguste Rodin. This particular sculpture is a bronze cast of the original. It has been under the care of the Philadelphia Museum of Art for many decades. As you can see, it also served as the Rodin Museum's main entrance.

"What makes this sculpture so unique is that Auguste Rodin, perhaps unintentionally, or perhaps not, imbued it with magical properties. The twisted imagery actually gives the sculpture a natural affinity for summoning rituals."

"So," interrupted Dean, "You're saying that The Gates of Hell… could actually be used to open a gate to Hell?"

Reynolds smirked and Vasquez groaned. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. We need to find whoever stole this before it gets used as a summoning tool. That's why I'm here from the Office of Artifact Recovery."

She pulled a pair of glasses from her breast pocket and handed them to Dean. "Look through these."

The glasses had a thick, black frame and lenses almost as thick as those on safety goggles. Dean put them on and his world completely changed.

As if someone had turned out the lights, the bright, sunny day became a pitch-black void. Streaks of color, as smooth as the brush stroke of a master calligrapher, were suspended in the void. Dean focused on a streak of green and saw that it was the outline of one of the many trees surrounding the museum. He turned back to where he remembered Vasquez and Reynolds were standing and he saw two rainbow halos surrounding their black silhouettes. The colors of the halos flowed and pulsed like sunlight reflecting off of a flowing river, displaying every color in the visible spectrum. But he noticed that Vasquez's halo seemed to be dominated by a fiery red, while Reynold's halo favored a more subdued royal blue. Sam's halo, he noted, was a bright emerald green, but was also dotted with specks of grey.

Dean now turned towards the empty door frame. The edges of the door frame, though empty when viewed without the glasses, were caked with a faded, blood-red hue. He took the glasses off and handed them back to Vasquez.

"What the hell was all that?" he asked.

"Auras," said Vasquez, slipping the glasses back into her pocket. "Every living thing has an aura, as you could probably see. And everything with supernatural properties does, too. And like a fingerprint, every aura is unique, making it the perfect tool for tracking things down."

"But your aura was all bright red. What does that mean?"

Vasquez's face contorted in anger and embarrassment, but Reynolds stepped in before she could respond. "Auras reflect on their owner," he said. "A person's aura is a reflection of their personality and inner thoughts. You probably saw that mine had a lot of blue in it. That's because I'm as easygoing as they come."

Dean jerked his thumb in Sam's direction. "Well, Sam's was a bright green and had spots of-"

Dean was interrupted by the ringing of a cell phone. Reynolds withdrew a small phone from his breast pocket and flipped it open. "Sergeant Tim Reynolds, Northeast Patrol District," he answered. His lighthearted smile immediately turned into a frown. "Good, we'll get on it right away. Keep the target in sight."

He put his phone away and turned to Vasquez. "Our helicopter, Foxtrot, has sighted a matching aura. It's in a plain white box truck headed north on I-95, sighted near Exit 23."

Vasquez wasted no time. "You heard him," she announced to the men standing guard. "Let's go! Apprehend the suspect before he figures out how to use the artifact!" The officers scattered to their cars.

She turned to Reynolds. "Go through our contact with the Philadelphia Police Department and have them shut down traffic on that section of highway. We don't want to endanger the public." She started towards her car.

Reynolds ran his hand through what little gray hair he had left, pre-emptively wiping beads of sweat. "But what do I tell them?"

She rolled her eyes and turned. "I don't know, tell them there's a bomb in the truck."

"Tell them that the FBI's art theft division is chasing down a bomb threat?"

"Just figure something out," Vasquez snapped. "And are you two just going to stand there or come with me?" she asked Sam and Dean.

She turned and walked towards her car. Without a word, Sam and Dean followed, wondering what they had gotten themselves into.

When Dean saw the car, he couldn't help but chuckle. Vasquez drove a dark blue 2005 Honda Accord. She immediately climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. Dean called shotgun, and Sam sat behind him.

"So what's this thing have? 2 horsepower?" joked Dean.

"Not quite," retorted Vasquez as she gunned her car's V-6 engine, dodging trees and then cars as the car rushed from the Rodin Museum's manicured lawn to the bumpy streets of Philadelphia. Tires squealed and horns sounded as she wove between cars like a Formula 1 driver.

"What happens if we get pulled over?" asked Sam, anxiously gripping the seat as the sedan sped through traffic.

"That won't be a problem," said Vasquez. She flicked a switch on the console, activating previously-hidden police lights and a siren. To the outside world, they now looked like an unmarked police car rushing to an emergency. Vehicles in front of them moved to the side of the road and Vasquez sped up even more.

"So…," began Dean, trying to appear confident, "We never formally introduced ourselves back there. I'm Dean, and back there's my brother Sam."

"Lieutenant Susan Vasquez," she replied, never taking her eyes off the road. "Night Police, Research and Development Division, Bureau of Artifacts, Office of Artifact Recovery."

She made a sharp turn, tires screeching as the car sprinted through a traffic circle. Dean would have flown out of his seat if not for the seat belt.

"So… what's your story? How'd you get started in the Night Police?"

Vasquez was silent for a moment, eyes briefly flicking in Dean's direction before returning to the road. "I was one of those kids who grew up constantly being told to 'follow their passion'. So in college, I studied art history. After graduation, reality hit me when I learned that there aren't many museum jobs to go around. So instead of displaying art, I found a job recovering art. I joined ICE and spent a few years as a special agent in the Cultural Property, Art, and Antiquities division. I wanted a similar job in the Night Police, and now I investigate the theft of magical artifacts."

"Why join the Night Police?"

"I saw a chupacabra," said Vasquez, with an expression of total seriousness. Dean decided not to press the matter any further.

After a few more blocks of dodging traffic, Vasquez turned onto an on-ramp for I-676 and merged into speeding traffic, cars dutifully moving to the side at the sight of her flashing lights. The interchange with I-95 was only about half a mile away.

Following the signs for I-95, the Honda Accord flew up the on-ramp at nearly 100 miles per hour. But after rounding the bend, Vasquez slammed on the brakes and the car screeched to a halt, barely avoiding contact with a minivan in front of her.

I-95 was a parking lot. Thousands of cars, vans, and trucks sat unmoving, horns honking fruitlessly. Even with her flashing police lights, Vasquez had nowhere to go.

She picked up the radio transmitter in her car's center console. "Foxtrot, what is the status of the Philadelphia Police Department's road closure?"

A static-filled voice echoed through the receiver. "The PPD has shut down all I-95 north lanes beginning just south of Exit 23. They have a bunch of patrol cars blocking the highway there. It also looks like they are blocking all on-ramps from Exit 23 onward. The only vehicles on the road past that point are the suspect vehicle and a few dozen civilians that managed to get by before the road closure."

Vasquez looked down the highway. A few hundred feet away, a sign taunted her: "Exit 23: Girard Ave, Lehigh Ave, ¾ Mile". And a few hundred feet beyond the sign, Vasquez saw the flashing lights of police cars forming a road block.

"Goddamnit!" she fumed. She looked ahead: an unmoving white minivan. She looked behind: a whole line of traffic. She looked to the left: more stuck traffic. She looked to the right: a very narrow, but empty, shoulder.

"Hang on, boys," she said as her car swerved onto the shoulder, with only a few inches between the traffic on her left and the concrete barrier on her right. She pushed the pedal to the floor, and both Sam and Dean sunk back into their seats with fear.

"Hey, what's that?" said Dean, pointing ahead. A wooden barricade with a mounted orange sign blocked the shoulder. "Shoulder work ahead."

"Don't worry about it," replied Vasquez coolly. She applied more pressure to the pedal, and the small Honda Accord burst through the wooden barricade and through a set of plastic orange drums.

Five hundred feet away, construction workers raked and smoothed freshly-paved asphalt across the full width of the shoulder. At the sight of Vasquez bearing down on them, they immediately dropped their tools, sprinted for the edge of the road, and jumped over the concrete barrier, just as Vasquez whizzed by.

After a few more hundred feet, they finally made it to the road closure. As soon as they passed the closure, Vasquez immediately swerved back onto the road and accelerated even more up the now-empty highway.

"Foxtrot, where is the suspect vehicle?"

"He just passed Exit 27. He's driving a leisurely 55 miles per hour in the right lane. No reaction to the thinning traffic."

Vasquez gunned it. Dean's eyes went wide as he saw the speedometer creep up to 120 miles per hour.

Exits 25, 26, 27, 30, and 32 flashed by. Slow-moving vehicles moved out of her way like a gazelle herd fleeing a lion. And then, on the horizon, just past Exit 35, she saw it: an unmarked, white box truck traveling slowly up the right lane. At the sight of her flashing lights, it sped up.

Vasquez easily closed the distance. The lumbering box truck was no match for her small car's V-6 engine. "Careful, Vasquez," cautioned Foxtrot. "Other responding officers are at least fifteen minutes away."

"Vasquez!" thundered the voice of Sergeant Reynolds over the radio. "Don't you dare engage him on your own! We don't know what kind of-"

With a click, Vasquez shut off the receiver.

The Honda Accord was now only fifty feet behind the box truck. Without warning, the truck's door opened slightly, only about a foot, revealing a dark, cloaked figure silhouetted against an even darker interior. The figure raised its hand; Vasquez swore and immediately swerved to the left as a column of flame shot from the back of the truck.

"They're goddamn warlocks!" cursed Vasquez as she swung her car back into position behind the truck.

The cloaked figure raised his hand again and Vasquez prepared to dodge, but this time, instead of fire, a cloud of pure black smoke erupted from the back of the truck. Vasquez immediately slammed on her brakes, squealing to a stop. The smoke before them spread across the width of the highway like a dense fog. Like the black curtain of a stage play, it was impossible to see through it.

She turned her radio back on. "Foxtrot, do you still have a visual on truck?"

"Affirmative, it's still headed north on I-95. It's at the head of that column of black smoke."

"Roger, I'm going in." She turned off her radio before Sergeant Reynolds could interject again.

She made sure that all of her windows were rolled up, then flicked a switch on the air freshener clipped to her dashboard vent; the car was immediately filled with the heavy odor of garlic and rosemary. After taking a deep breath and steadying herself, she turned on her car's headlights and flicked a hidden switch on the back of her steering wheel. The yellow light cast by her headlights turned into a pure white beam that cut through the black smoke like a knife through butter. "Let's go."

They plunged into the smoke, the path ahead illuminated by two lances of Holy Light. But on the other three sides of the car, there was nothing pitch black. Looking out the window, Sam and Dean saw twisted, shadowy figures lurking in the darkness, keeping their distance.

"What the hell are those things?" asked Sam in a low voice.

"Smoke demons," answered Vasquez. "This is a cloud of demonic smoke, after all. The little brother of hellfire. We'll be safe in here, just keep your window up."

After a few minutes of cautious driving, they emerged on the other side of the smoke cloud, which was already starting to dissipate. "It doesn't last long, it's just a temporary summon," explained Vasquez as she flicked off her air freshener and turned off the Holy Light. "But still dangerous if you go in unprepared." She turned on her radio.

"Foxtrot, where is the suspect?"

"The truck just got off I-95 at Exit 37. Made a right onto Street Road."

"Roger," she said as she accelerated back up to highway speed. "I am still in pursuit."

"Lieutenant Vasquez!" shouted Reynolds through the radio. "I highly recommend that you wait for backup!"

"No can do, Sergeant. I've confirmed that the perpetrators are warlocks. They are probably planning to use the Gate to summon something big. We must stop them before that. I will engage them as soon as possible. Over and out." They were now at Exit 37.

"They turned right onto State Road," reported Foxtrot. "And now they're turned into the parking lot of a warehouse. The sign by the road says 'United Refrigeration'. They opened a door and now they're pulling into the warehouse."

"Copy that, Foxtrot," said Vasquez, right as she turned onto Street Road. She shut off her siren and flashing lights. Silently, her car cruised down Street Road, turned right onto State Road, and then pulled into a parking lot across the street from the United Refrigeration warehouse. She turned her car off and surveyed the building.

"Not much going on over there," observed Dean.

The parking lot of the one-story brick warehouse was empty. A "For Rent - Space Available" sign stood on an overgrown grass lawn. The few windows were covered with cardboard.

"Let's get ready, boys," said Vasquez as she exited her vehicle. Sam and Dean followed her lead and stood next to her as she opened the trunk.

The trunk was completely empty. Vasquez reached in with both hands and lifted the matting, revealing the spare tire well. But instead of a spare tire, this Honda Accord had a gun locker.

Vasquez reached up to her neck, opened the top two buttons on her white blouse, reached in, and uncovered a necklace with a thick iron chain. Attached to the necklace were a variety of charms: a silver crucifix, a small glass nazar, a gilded Eye of Horus, and even a small glass terrarium with a living four-leaf clover. She unclipped a small silver key from the iron chain and unlocked the door to the gun locker.

Inside was an assault rifle, a pump-action shotgun, a crossbow, and several steel ammunition boxes. She passed the assault rifle to Sam and the shotgun to Dean, then started going through the ammunition boxes. She opened one labelled 'General Protection' and withdrew two necklaces identical to hers as well as two small folded nylon sheets. "Put these necklaces on underneath your shirts," she said as she handed one each to Sam and Dean. "Make sure they are in contact with your bare skin. These will protect you from indirect magical attacks. They won't be able to possess or mind control you, but please jump out of the way if they throw a fireball at you."

She then handed them the nylon sheets. "Keep these in your pocket. They are inscribed with a circle of protection. If at any point things get too dangerous in there, unfold them and stand in them. Once you are in standing in them, do not break the plane of the circle, or its magic will be voided. So no matter what happens, no matter what threats are made, do not leave the circle. You will be safe from 99 percent of all supernatural threats. The only things that can get into the circle are normal, non-supernatural humans and animals. Or if the attackers somehow have knowledge of an ancient magic that we have not yet discovered. But if we are forced to pull these out, do not leave the circle and wait for backup to save us."

Then, she pulled out an ammunition box labelled 'Mages'. Inside were several boxes of shotgun shells and magazines for the assault rifle as well as for a handgun. Vasquez passed a box of shotgun shells to Dean and a pair of rifle magazines to Sam. Then, she reached into her suit jacket and withdrew a handgun from her sling holster. She swapped out the magazine for one in the 'Mages' box.

"These bullets were specially designed to disrupt a mage's magic circuits. All magic users - wizards, witches, sorcerers, warlocks, what have you - have magic circuits that enable them to harness and cast magic. These magic circuits enable mages to focus magical energy into a form suitable for spellcasting.

"These bullets and shotgun slugs are made with meteoric iron and fabricated with a process adapted from the Phurba daggers of Tibetan Buddhism. Once they pierce a mage's flesh, they will deactivate the magic circuits, rendering the mage powerless."

Vasquez closed the ammunition box and returned it to its place, between the ammunition boxes marked 'Lycans' and 'Vampires'.

"How do you know that these guys are warlocks?" asked Dean as Vasquez closed the gun locker. "What separates them from a witch or wizard?"

"Wizards and witches need an incantation to cast magic," she answered. "When the truck door opened, this guy conjured fire without needing any time to focus and say an incantation."

She closed the trunk and replaced the key to the locker on her necklace. "And sorcerers get their magic from the natural magic currents that flow through the world, like a Jedi or something. We keep tabs on all known sorcerers in the US, and they don't need to summon anything to do some serious damage. Plus, they tend to be so far stuck up their own ass that they would never be caught dead 'degrading' themselves with a summoning.

"But warlocks are different. Instead of burying themselves in spellbooks like a witch or wizard or channeling the natural magic currents like a sorcerer, warlocks get their magic by making a pact with a demonic entity. The warlock gives them some blood, a piece of their soul, and a nice sacrifice, and the demon lets them borrow some powers. The more powerful the demon and the better-worded the pact, the stronger the warlock's powers. My guess is that these warlocks want to summon a very powerful demon in order to get some very powerful magic."

She turned to the warehouse across the street. "Now let's go."

They sprinted across the street and pressed themselves up against the warehouse's brick facade. Vasquez led them around the side of the building to a row of six steel bay doors. Next to the bay doors was a small door. Sam and Vasquez positioned themselves on either side of the door. After confirming that their weapons' flashlight attachments worked, Vasquez nodded. Dean aimed the shotgun at the door latch and fired. With a loud bang, the door's latch broke. Vasquez immediately opened the door and cleared the right side of the room, Sam the left side, and Dean the center.

They were in a large, dark room about the size of a football field. The walls and floor of the room were bare, dusty concrete; the ceiling was hidden behind a maze of rusted steel trusses and clouds of ancient fireproofing material. The only light sources were the flashlight attachments on their weapons and the sunlight that seeped in through the breached door. In the center of the room sat the white box truck.

The trio approached the box truck with the precision of a SWAT team. Vasquez checked the rear and underneath; Sam and Dean swept the sides, front, and the unlocked cabin. Finding nothing, they returned to the rear of the truck.

"Cover me," whispered Vasquez. She holstered her handgun and placed both hands on the truck's door latch. Dean took up position behind her, shotgun aimed at the door, and Sam stood back, keeping an eye on the surroundings. Vasquez turned the latch, flung the door open, and drew her handgun. But the truck was empty.

She used the flashlight attachment on her handgun to sweep the inside of the truck. The Gates of Hell bronze statue stood silently at the back of the truck bay, gleaming dully in the beam of the flashlight. Vasquez sighed with relief. But then she swept her flashlight to the floor of the truck and inhaled sharply. She spotted a summoning circle inscribed with white chalk, a puddle of dried blood, and the remains of white candles.

She reached for the radio clipped to her belt. "Reynolds, this is Vasquez. It looks like the suspects have already summoned something, over." But when she released the transmit button, all she heard was static.

As if on cue, the door that they had come through slammed shut on its own and their flashlights fizzled out, plunging them into darkness. Then, the concrete floor started to echo with the pitter-patter of thousands of tiny footsteps and an impish giggle began to reverberate throughout the room, slowly growing louder.

"Do not panic," said Vasquez, partially to herself. "Press the round, white button on the flashlight attachments."

Sam and Dean fumbled in the darkness, groping along the flashlights until they found the button. When they pressed it, a white lance of Holy Light erupted from them, piercing the darkness. The pitter-patter stopped. Sam, Dean, and Vasquez looked around the empty warehouse in silence, Holy Light illuminating the walls.

"Do you think that will save you?!" boomed a deep voice that seemed to come out of nowhere and echoed around the room. Without warning, Sam, Dean, and Vasquez were each struck by an invisible force and flung to opposite sides of the warehouse.

Sam flew one hundred feet and tumbled to the concrete floor. With a groan, he sat up. The assault rifle lay twenty feet away, wrenched out of his hands by the force of the blow. He slowly stood up, and that's when he noticed the smell of smoke.

Across the warehouse, Dean lay in a heap. He had been thrown against the wall. He was battered and bruised. The shotgun lay at his feet. He tried to stand, but a sharp pain in his left leg forced him back to the floor. His nostrils flared at the smell of smoke, and he saw twisted, nightmarish forms begin to materialize in the darkness. He swore and reached for the shotgun, just as a massive, hulking form materialized in front of him.

He lifted the shotgun and aimed the beam of Holy Light square into the middle of the figure; it emitted a terrible shriek like a dying cat and then faded away into the darkness. Dean swiveled the shotgun, using the Holy Light to keep the demonic smoke at bay.

"Sam?! Susan?! Where the hell are you guys?" he shouted. He coughed as the smoke infiltrated his lungs.

Sam unfolded the nylon sheet inscribed with the circle of protection. In the darkness, he could see dozens of shadowy, smoke-filled forms lurking between him and the assault rifle, daring him to try and press on. Instead, he decided to buy some time.

With smoke filling his lungs, Sam limped onto the nylon sheet and into the circle of protection. Inside was immediate relief from the smoke; he took a deep breath of smoke-free air and did his best to calm down and think straight. The demonic smoke wafted around the edges of the circle, probing for a weakness, waiting for him to mess up and break the plane.

"Dean?! Vasquez?! I'm over here!" he shouted. But his voice only seemed to echo back at him from the smoke.

"They're probably dead by now," said a low, deep voice from only about ten feet away. Sam turned and nearly jumped out of the circle.

Standing in the darkness amidst the demonic smoke was a black, cloaked figure, just like the one on the truck during the car chase.

"Who the hell are you?!" demanded Sam.

The figure did not answer, but instead approached Sam and knelt down outside the circle of protection. "Hmm. Interesting. This is the most comprehensive circle of protection that I've ever seen." He stood up and inserted a pale, sickly hand into the depths of his cloak and withdrew a long, shiny, curved knife. "Unfortunately for you, it only protects against magical threats."

The figure drew his arm back in a stabbing stance and Sam closed his eyes, but before the knife plunged forward, a loud boom reverberated around the warehouse, followed by a gentle sizzle. Sam and his attacker both looked towards to the center of the room, where a parachute flare emanating pure Holy Light was now floating gently to the floor. Dozens of smoke demons howled in pain as they de-materialized, vanquished by the light. The atmosphere inside the warehouse instantly returned to normal.

"But… how?" asked the cloaked figure, arms down at his sides, at a loss for words.

Instead of answering, Sam sucker punched him in the back of the head with as much force as he could muster.

When the demonic smoke vanished, Dean immediately saw a cloaked figure standing twenty feet in front of him.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Who the hell are you?!"

"None of your business," shot back the warlock indignantly. "I'll just have to finish you myself." He conjured a fireball into his right hand and prepared to throw.

"Not today, you son of a bitch," said Dean defiantly. He raised the shotgun, aimed it right at the warlock's chest, and pulled the trigger. But instead of a boom, Dean only heard a mechanical click as the trigger mechanism malfunctioned.

"Did you honestly think I wouldn't take care of that?" taunted the warlock, eager to gloat. "I had my demons make sure that your nasty gun wouldn't be able to fire."

"What about mine?" said Vasquez's voice from behind him. Before the warlock could turn around, three bangs echoed across the warehouse and three bullets found their mark, piercing into the warlock's chest. The warlock doubled over and howled in pain as the blood seeped through his cloak, and the conjured fire unceremoniously snuffed out. Vasquez put iron handcuffs on him and, disregarding his injuries, threw him to the ground.

She extended a hand to Dean and helped him up.

"Did you forget about the circle of protection?" asked Vasquez.

"No, I'm just too stubborn to use one," said Dean, grimacing as he put weight on his left leg. "How did you get us out of that?"

"I used a flare gun," she answered as she guided Dean to the other side of the room. "Standard-issue for officers. I would have used it sooner, but my assigned warlock buddy decided to try and roughhouse with me, so I returned the favor and kicked his ass the old-fashioned way."

On the other side of the room, Sam stood guard over the unconscious warlock until Vasquez placed handcuffs on him. Then, he collapsed to the floor.

"That was more than I bargained for," he said.

"Tell me about it," said Dean, plopping down next to him.

Vasquez turned on her radio to contact the other officers, but before she could hit the transmit button, she heard sirens outside. Car doors slammed, and Sergeant Reynolds and the other Night Police officers ran in, weapons drawn.

"Lieutenant Vasquez!" said Sergeant Reynolds, his face locked into an expression of exasperation. "I realize that you outrank me, but this… this is just too much!" He threw up his hands helplessly.

"Don't worry, Sergeant," said Vasquez. "The important thing is that we caught the perpetrators, and now everything will be okay. You should know by now that I like to do things my way."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Reynolds, shoulders sagged in defeat. He saluted and ambled away to direct his men.

Vasquez turned to Sam and Dean and helped each of them up. "Thanks for your help today," she said with a smirk. "You two still have a long way to go, but I can see why Wilkerson likes you."

"That's great and all," said Dean, "but what happens now?"

"Well, those three warlocks are going to get their magic circuits permanently disrupted, and then they'll be charged and tried for their crimes."

"Tried? You mean, in a court?" asked Sam.

"We have our own justice system," said Vasquez. "You'll see it eventually, if you join us."

"We'll worry about that later," said Dean. "Right now, I just want a Philly cheese steak. Or three."

Vasquez gave a rare smile. She reached into her pocket and gave a wide-eyed Sam a large fold of bills. "This should cover a few cheesesteaks. Get out of here before the clean-up crew comes in and interrogates you. I'll call a cab to meet you across the street."

"Thanks," said Dean, with a matching smile. "But can I also get your phone number?"

Vasquez just smirked and walked away.